Page 70 of Uncoachable

And there it is again.

That pull.

That quiet obsession that has been building since the moment she walked into this rink and looked at me like she wasn’t impressed by my stats.

She finally looks up, and our eyes meet across the ice.

Heat floods my chest—relief tangled with a tension so thick I could cut it with a skate blade. Something flickers across her face—recognition, maybe memory, or maybe the same fucking thing that’s burning in my chest.

Then she looks away, and her mask snaps back into place.

Ice queen. Untouchable. Unbothered.

But I saw it; I saw the crack in the ice and now I can’t stop looking for it.

***

In the locker room, the guys are loud and joking, full of life after a hard skate, but I barely hear them. My head is still on the ice. It is still on her.

Cash nudges me as I’m pulling off my jersey. “You good, Callie?”

“Fine.”

“You’re lying through your teeth.”

“Drop it, Cash.”

He grins. “You’re obsessed. It’s written all over your face.”

I don’t deny it this time. Because maybe I am.

Maybe I’ve been fighting something that has already won. Maybe the resentment I thought I felt was just the first stage of something else entirely—something I’m not ready for and don’t know how to manage.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like—

No. I’m not going there. Not yet.

But as I shower, dress, and head out of the locker room, one thing is clear to me: I’m not done watching her. Not even close.

As I walk toward the parking lot, the evening air is crisp and cold, but I’m still burning from the inside out. I see her car—the practical, black one that replaced the wreck from four years ago. It is perfectly parked, just like everything else in her life.

I think about the “spicy noodle” comment again, and a smirk tugs at my mouth in the darkness.

She thinks I’m a disaster. She thinks I’m a complication. And the worst part is, she’s absolutely right. I am going to ruin her neat, organized professional life.

I pull my keys from my pocket, the metal feeling cold against my palm.

Tomorrow is a game day.

Tomorrow, I have to be the leader. I have to be the one who scores the goals and manages the room and keeps everyone focused.

But tonight, as I drive home through the Boston streets, all I can think about is the way she bit her lip, and how much I want to be the reason she does it again.

* * *

7:43 PM

Cash: Did you verbally murder Delaney during practice?